In fact, my worst nightmare is the thought of being accosted by someone smoking an onion.
I wish the obnoxious things had never been put on this earth – or left under it to be more accurate.
Apart from the runny-eye aspect, raw onions are obscenely pungent. And as for the taste…better move on before I’m sick. Literally.
The thing is, it’s relatively easy to avoid the smell of onions – unless someone rams one in your face, of course. No such luck with the cancer-stick brigade, though.
Maybe it’s their way of fighting back at those who cast them out into the winter cold. But I’m getting the distinct aroma of déjà vu this summer.
Back in England a few years ago, I used to rail about inconsiderate smokers (which was just about all of them) lighting up on the next table as I was about to tuck into my juicy steak.
I dared not complain because they were perfectly entitled to pollute my clothes and lungs and ruin my evening. So I stopped going to restaurants.
Come July 1, 2007, I was in heaven. Smoking was banned in public places - and I could at last dine out in the knowledge that any sick saddie who couldn’t do without a roll-up for the time it takes to eat three courses had no option but to leave the room. And the building.
However, when I moved to Spain, it was back to square one. Square zero, even -because smoking is to the Spanish what beer, tattoos and pot bellies are to British holidaymakers.
Which is one of the reasons I wrote a piece just before the January smoking ban predicting that while expats would abide by the rules, the natives would find a way round it because it was part of their culture.
I had the impression that smoking 50 Señor Service Extra Pungent a day was compulsory for every Spaniard over the age of 16 – particularly the girls.
I also thought it was a miracle the country isn’t permanently shrouded in smog.
My belief the ban would not work was based on the fact that whilst British smokers are used to being persecuted, the idea of not lighting up, particularly in their favourite bar, is to the average Spaniard unthinkable.
Which is why I’m astounded the Madrid government’s legislation seems to be working in these parts.
Of course, the January embargo came as a godsend to anti-smoking fanatics like myself.
At last we were in a little England where smokers would shiver outside while the clean-living dined unmolested in our favourite restaurant.
No more scouring tables before sitting down for giveaway ciggy packets – always a sure sign that you’d be choking within a few minutes.
But of course, we knew that come summer, it would be déjà vu and back to the days when I stopped eating out in the UK.
Now, once again, smokers are free to put al fresco diners in a Catch 22 situation (i.e. ‘be a passive pal and help me smoke my cigarette - or take your clear air somewhere else’).
Unless I choose to bake inside a sweltering restaurant and miss out on the joys of outdoor dining, the Choker Jokers are going to get me.
OK, I know most eateries have air conditioning, but who wants to sit indoors on a glorious summer’s evening?
Last week, I dined with friends in the pretty setting of La Herradura restaurant in Los Montesinos.
Inside, no smoking of course - and no diners either. It was far too hot.
Outside, it was choc-a-bloc with dozens of tables, covered with pristine white tablecloths, arranged close together to accommodate as many diners as possible.
The whole scenario was a non-smoker’s nightmare with the message to the nicotine brigade, ‘light up when you like’, regardless of that woman about to consume her carpaccio of prawns starter two feet away.
Now I know that smoking in the open air is perfectly legal. But do restaurateurs not realise that most of their customers DO NOT enjoy their steaks drizzled with tobacco-smoke sauce?
Surely it’s the simplest thing to set up separate smoking and non-smoking areas, just as I remember in the days before the legislators first moved in. The only difference is that they need to do it OUT-DOORS.
It really is déjà vu. And it’s happening all over again.
